


This I Dare

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Quest, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam grew up on tales The Gaffer told.  The Frodo of those tales is sadly different now that Bilbo has left the Shire.</p><p>Companion piece: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3073421">I Dare You</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	This I Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted Sept 2005 on LJ.

_“That Frodo Baggins was a wild 'un in his younger days, the likes of which you've never seen.”_

That's always been my gaffer's opinion on the matter, and he's not a hobbit to stretch the truth. So if he says my master once stole his cousin's brand new hat, tied it to the Cottons' prize hog and set the beast a-trotting down the streets of Hobbiton one busy market day his first summer on The Hill with Mr. Bilbo, than I must believe that story is no lie. It might, indeed, go far to explain the ill will Miss. Lobelia bears Mr. Frodo to this day. She's not a one to be forgiving such a thing. And it weren't the only prank he's ever played on her, it seems.

I grew up on the tales me gaffer'd tell, him mellow with a pint or two of ale, smoke from his old pipe scenting air already heavy with the homey smell of fresh bread and drying apples. Curled up on a rug of an evening, my fingers busy with the braiding of a rope or some other simple chore, my sisters tucked together on our old settee, heads bent over their mending, we'd listen to the stories and try our best to hide our smiles. T'would never do, you see, to let The Gaffer think he was putting fancies in our heads. These were cautionary tales, never meant to inspire a body to go out and try some form of daring tomfoolery of their own.

_“One time Mr. Frodo leapt from a treetop and flew himself right on down into the Bywater Pool.”_

I could see him doing that too. His face all flushed from the climb, sure feet feeling their way along some sturdy bough. Standing at his ease for a moment, as if he were safe on solid ground instead of up on some breeze-tossed limb. Judging the distance with that level gaze of his that misses nothing, the pulse fluttering at his throat the only indication of his fear. The sudden leap... the graceful fall... His slim body slicing into the water like one of those seabirds Mr. Bilbo told me about, the ones that dive to catch their prey. 

I shake my head in wonder. And mighty glad I am that I wasn't there that day to see him fly. I would have aged a century in a heartbeat, died a thousand times waiting for that dark head to bob up to the surface, his face wide-split in a triumphant grin. Hobbits weren't made to fly – nor to swim, neither! But, back then, doing what a hobbit should was never a thing to concern Mr. Frodo overmuch. There wasn't much he didn't dare... 

_“He never could refuse a dare, they say.”_

Not according to the stories The Gaffer told us anyways. Not meaning no disrespect, of course! Fond tales they were, like we'd hear about the doings of our Hamson or Halfred when they were lads. Oh, there'd be a frown of disapproval upon The Gaffer's face as he related each misdeed, but the warm chuckle in his voice spoke of admiration too. There's never been a hobbit like Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact.

But The Gaffer hasn't spun us those tales of misadventure in a long, long time. Not since Mr. Bilbo up and left and Mr. Frodo became our new master. It isn't right to gossip about The Master. Not even in the privacy of one's own home. It isn't done. It isn't proper. 

Being proper is the message my gaffer drills in my head these days.

Like Mr. Frodo is proper now. Like he stepped himself into Mr. Bilbo's skin and became a respectable hobbit overnight. Quiet. Dependable. Responsible. Stodgy.

It's like to break my heart.

I don't think I've heard him laugh once since The Party. I can count on one hand the times I've seen him smile and mean it.

But all the townsfolk see is The Master going about, efficiently doing his duty. They're well content to have life go on much the same as it's always done. They mistake sadness for sobriety, loneliness for maturity. They don't look past that mask he wears. 

But I've caught me a look or two at Mr. Frodo's eyes. Just a peek, now and then. And I don't like what I see. I've seen a coney trapped in a wire with that self-same, glazed stare. Resigned to its fate. Numb to the world around it.

I've made it my personal mission in life to set Mr. Frodo free.

So if Samwise Gamgee is stepping outside his bounds of late, that's the reason why. If I stand there, hands braced on my hoe, chin resting on my hands, talking of this and that with Mr. Frodo while the sun slowly crosses the sky, well, I just stay a little later that day and tend the rows in the cool of evening time. It isn't like I'm shirking my duties. In fact I've taken on more than a few new ones along the way. The smial looks a fair sight homier with flowers scattered here and there in those pretty vases Mr. Bilbo gathered on his journeys. The study needs a good dusting now and then. Fireplaces take a heap of firewood. Dishes don't wash themselves. And, slowly, the weight Mr. Frodo lost has crept back on his bones what with all the breakfasts and teas I've served. Sometimes, most times, I even cook him a good supper. Sometimes, most times, he asks me to stay. And though it isn't proper, that's just what I do. After all, a hobbit needs a spot of company, no matter what his position in life might be. And if I'm all that steps up to offer a friendly chat now and then, filling the gaps, if you will, 'twixt those rare visits of his Took and Bolger and Brandybuck cousins... well... it's better than him sitting there all alone.

It's not like I warm his bed for him.

It's not like I wouldn't if he asked.

I've been his, body and heart and soul, my whole life long. I always knew it. It's just one of those things that happens, like the sun coming up each morning, and a flowerbud opening up to greet that sun. I can't say there was a single, crystallized moment when I fell in love with my master. It came upon me gradual-like. The love I'd always held for him just grew and grew until it filled me fit to bursting. I crossed from 'love' to 'in love' without a breath between.

Sometimes I like to think he loves me too. 

Sometimes I catch him watching me with an almost smile on his face. Sometimes his hand lingers overlong on my shoulder when we say goodbye at night. Sometimes... sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of the carefree Frodo Baggins of yesteryear. The lad who wasn't afraid to fly...

I think he's perched up there on that tree limb. Sniffing air currents and estimating the distance. Poised to take that leap, but not quite certain the water below is as deep as it should be.

All I have to do is dare him to take that final step.

_Don't worry, Frodo-love. I'll catch you when you fall._


End file.
